Liam, my 8 years old son, died in the middle of the pandemic. He was hit by a car as he crossed a busy street. I was supposed to pick him up that day, but I stayed home with my other son, Evan. Instead, my husband went.

A devastating journey of grief started that day.

At first, I was in shock. So much so that I couldn’t cry at the hospital. I could puke, though. Then, I wanted to go to him. I found a rope, tied it up, put it around my neck, and thought about my other son.

Parents are not supposed to have a favorite, and I am not saying I loved Liam more, but we connected on a different level through the arts. We loved to look at random shapes together, a splotch of paint, or cement, or a cloud, and anthropomorphize them. He would always understand what I was seeing. And vice-versa.

Evan is cerebral. He wants to play chess with me and have an intellectual discussion about prime numbers or fundamental particles. I love that too, but Liam was the love of my life.

What to do when you lose a child? What happens? Does your heart actually break? Do you become mean? Do you seek revenge? Do the four stages of grief actually apply?

I am a member of a club no one wants to belong to.

For the first four months, my life was a blur of activities. A mural was painted with Liam’s art by a talented artist, and I helped. I created an artistic award at Liam’s school. I fought to make the street where he died safer. I went to City Hall meetings. I build a shelter on wheels for the homeless. I bought socks and cigarettes and distributed them to people in need.

Then, our amputated family traveled to Cuba for two weeks and ignored Christmas as best we could.

Upon our return, I sank into a deep, dark depression. I could not do anything. I could not hurt anymore, and I had (again) decided to kill myself. I was waiting for a permit to buy firearms with a plan to blow my brains out. I would go to a park at night and wrap my head in a pillowcase, like Woody Harrelson in that movie with the billboards. I had enough sanity left to bring it up to a therapist, who suggested antidepressants. They worked.

Something happened on the 9 months anniversary of his death. I rented a space with a piano and practiced on a baby grand. I put lipstick on, and I bought a sandwich in a restaurant. I breathed a little better.

I discovered that going to mass pretty much guaranteed an hour without emotional anguish. And those four stages of grief? I feel all of them several times a day.

The shock of losing a child is so intense the cells in my brain reorganized themselves. I am not afraid of heights anymore, and my motion sickness is down 90%. On the downside, I can’t remember anything, especially the names of places or words in a new language. It just doesn’t stick anymore. Sometimes, I manage to think of nothing at all.

Most issues seem trivial. Nothing makes me sad, but some things can make me happy. It’s an entirely different perspective, but one thing is for sure, and I hate to admit it, but my grief makes me a better person.